ZEFRANK.COM - message board

ZEFRANK.COM - message board (http://www.zefrank.com/bulletin_new/index.php)
-   Completed chapters/stories (http://www.zefrank.com/bulletin_new/forumdisplay.php?f=16)
-   -   Cantata Del Sol (chapter II) (http://www.zefrank.com/bulletin_new/showthread.php?t=360)

masterofNone 10-28-2002 12:48 PM

Cantata Del Sol (chapter II)
 
He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth.

dinzdale 10-28-2002 01:53 PM

His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach.

Deviate 10-29-2002 06:34 PM

On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.'

masterofNone 10-29-2002 09:26 PM

Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs.

dinzdale 10-30-2002 11:12 AM

If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his.

Deviate 10-30-2002 11:28 AM

He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back.

masterofNone 10-30-2002 11:38 AM

One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders.

dinzdale 10-30-2002 06:50 PM

The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality.

masterofNone 10-30-2002 06:53 PM

The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles.

Deviate 10-30-2002 07:06 PM

His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.

masterofNone 11-01-2002 01:06 AM

(just to keep with 'ze's suggestion, I've collected all of the posts into this one so we can copy it to each successive post, making a more readable piece)

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

Deviate 11-07-2002 09:22 PM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced.

masterofNone 11-07-2002 09:47 PM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat.

Deviate 11-08-2002 01:22 PM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse.

masterofNone 11-09-2002 02:19 AM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

MtBikerMike 11-10-2002 10:44 AM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

His ruse failed, however, as I maintained my steely gaze and asked, "Do you know where I might find a big hat?"

masterofNone 11-13-2002 09:09 PM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

His ruse failed, however, as I maintained my steely gaze and asked, "Do you know where I might find a big hat?" I began to stand up in the hot tub but by the time I reached my feet I was in my living room again, dry as a bone.

Deviate 11-14-2002 12:10 PM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

His ruse failed, however, as I maintained my steely gaze and asked, "Do you know where I might find a big hat?" I began to stand up in the hot tub but by the time I reached my feet I was in my living room again, dry as a bone. Dawn's glow had not yet begun to peek through the curtains, the room buzzed with a haze of television test pattern, and I smelled of alcohol and chlorine.

masterofNone 11-14-2002 12:48 PM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

His ruse failed, however, as I maintained my steely gaze and asked, "Do you know where I might find a big hat?" I began to stand up in the hot tub but by the time I reached my feet I was in my living room again, dry as a bone. Dawn's glow had not yet begun to peek through the curtains, the room buzzed with a haze of television test pattern, and I stunk of alcohol and chlorine. It dawned on me then, perhaps as a result of the stench, that though I seemed to be shifting through time uncontrollably, my self perception, my inner timeline, remained contiguous.

nycwriters 11-20-2002 10:59 PM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

His ruse failed, however, as I maintained my steely gaze and asked, "Do you know where I might find a big hat?" I began to stand up in the hot tub but by the time I reached my feet I was in my living room again, dry as a bone. Dawn's glow had not yet begun to peek through the curtains, the room buzzed with a haze of television test pattern, and I stunk of alcohol and chlorine. It dawned on me then, perhaps as a result of the stench, that though I seemed to be shifting through time uncontrollably, my self perception, my inner timeline, remained contiguous. I wasn't sure if this was the result of the hallucinogens or the blithe sublimation of my own desires.

masterofNone 11-20-2002 11:13 PM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

His ruse failed, however, as I maintained my steely gaze and asked, "Do you know where I might find a big hat?" I began to stand up in the hot tub but by the time I reached my feet I was in my living room again, dry as a bone. Dawn's glow had not yet begun to peek through the curtains, the room buzzed with a haze of television test pattern, and I stunk of alcohol and chlorine. It dawned on me then, perhaps as a result of the stench, that though I seemed to be shifting through time uncontrollably, my self perception, my inner timeline, remained contiguous. I wasn't sure if this was the result of the hallucinogens or the blithe sublimation of my own desires. He decided, before his frame of reference once again shifted to an unknown point in time and space, to grab the keys to his car and make a break for the door.

nycwriters 11-20-2002 11:17 PM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

His ruse failed, however, as I maintained my steely gaze and asked, "Do you know where I might find a big hat?" I began to stand up in the hot tub but by the time I reached my feet I was in my living room again, dry as a bone. Dawn's glow had not yet begun to peek through the curtains, the room buzzed with a haze of television test pattern, and I stunk of alcohol and chlorine. It dawned on me then, perhaps as a result of the stench, that though I seemed to be shifting through time uncontrollably, my self perception, my inner timeline, remained contiguous. I wasn't sure if this was the result of the hallucinogens or the blithe sublimation of my own desires. He decided, before his frame of reference once again shifted to an unknown point in time and space, to grab the keys to his car and make a break for the door. Halfway to the door the dog stopped him; "Where are you going George?" it asked.

masterofNone 11-21-2002 12:20 AM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

His ruse failed, however, as I maintained my steely gaze and asked, "Do you know where I might find a big hat?" I began to stand up in the hot tub but by the time I reached my feet I was in my living room again, dry as a bone. Dawn's glow had not yet begun to peek through the curtains, the room buzzed with a haze of television test pattern, and I stunk of alcohol and chlorine. It dawned on me then, perhaps as a result of the stench, that though I seemed to be shifting through time uncontrollably, my self perception, my inner timeline, remained contiguous. I wasn't sure if this was the result of the hallucinogens or the blithe sublimation of my own desires. He decided, before his frame of reference once again shifted to an unknown point in time and space, to grab the keys to his car and make a break for the door. Halfway to the door the dog stopped him; "Where are you going George?" it asked. He ignored the dog, continued out the door, down the gently flowing staircase, and out to the street...all the while wondering if his name really was George... my perspective shifting wildly from first to third person.

nycwriters 11-21-2002 12:22 AM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

His ruse failed, however, as I maintained my steely gaze and asked, "Do you know where I might find a big hat?" I began to stand up in the hot tub but by the time I reached my feet I was in my living room again, dry as a bone. Dawn's glow had not yet begun to peek through the curtains, the room buzzed with a haze of television test pattern, and I stunk of alcohol and chlorine. It dawned on me then, perhaps as a result of the stench, that though I seemed to be shifting through time uncontrollably, my self perception, my inner timeline, remained contiguous. I wasn't sure if this was the result of the hallucinogens or the blithe sublimation of my own desires. He decided, before his frame of reference once again shifted to an unknown point in time and space, to grab the keys to his car and make a break for the door. Halfway to the door the dog stopped him; "Where are you going George?" it asked. He ignored the dog, continued out the door, down the gently flowing staircase, and out to the street...all the while wondering if his name really was George.

SHE had called him George, all those years ago, when he once believed he could be somebody; when nothing seemed impossible.

masterofNone 11-22-2002 02:12 AM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

His ruse failed, however, as I maintained my steely gaze and asked, "Do you know where I might find a big hat?" I began to stand up in the hot tub but by the time I reached my feet I was in my living room again, dry as a bone. Dawn's glow had not yet begun to peek through the curtains, the room buzzed with a haze of television test pattern, and I stunk of alcohol and chlorine. It dawned on me then, perhaps as a result of the stench, that though I seemed to be shifting through time uncontrollably, my self perception, my inner timeline, remained contiguous. I wasn't sure if this was the result of the hallucinogens or the blithe sublimation of my own desires. He decided, before his frame of reference once again shifted to an unknown point in time and space, to grab the keys to his car and make a break for the door. Halfway to the door the dog stopped him; "Where are you going George?" it asked. He ignored the dog, continued out the door, down the gently flowing staircase, and out to the street...all the while wondering if his name really was George. All those years ago, when he once believed he could sort of, like, you know, be somebody; when nothing seemed impossible. I tried to focus as his perceptions changed from first person to third and back again.

nycwriters 11-22-2002 02:15 AM

First off -- ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ..... Ok, that was funny.

Now on to my add:




He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

His ruse failed, however, as I maintained my steely gaze and asked, "Do you know where I might find a big hat?" I began to stand up in the hot tub but by the time I reached my feet I was in my living room again, dry as a bone. Dawn's glow had not yet begun to peek through the curtains, the room buzzed with a haze of television test pattern, and I stunk of alcohol and chlorine. It dawned on me then, perhaps as a result of the stench, that though I seemed to be shifting through time uncontrollably, my self perception, my inner timeline, remained contiguous. I wasn't sure if this was the result of the hallucinogens or the blithe sublimation of my own desires. He decided, before his frame of reference once again shifted to an unknown point in time and space, to grab the keys to his car and make a break for the door. Halfway to the door the dog stopped him; "Where are you going George?" it asked. He ignored the dog, continued out the door, down the gently flowing staircase, and out to the street...all the while wondering if his name really was George. She had called him George all those years ago, when he once believed he could be somebody; when nothing seemed impossible. I tried to focus as his perceptions changed from first person to third and back again.

But that was neither here nor there, he HAD to get to his car and get the hell out of this nightmare.

Deviate 11-26-2002 04:25 PM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

His ruse failed, however, as I maintained my steely gaze and asked, "Do you know where I might find a big hat?" I began to stand up in the hot tub but by the time I reached my feet I was in my living room again, dry as a bone. Dawn's glow had not yet begun to peek through the curtains, the room buzzed with a haze of television test pattern, and I stunk of alcohol and chlorine. It dawned on me then, perhaps as a result of the stench, that though I seemed to be shifting through time uncontrollably, my self perception, my inner timeline, remained contiguous. I wasn't sure if this was the result of the hallucinogens or the blithe sublimation of my own desires. He decided, before his frame of reference once again shifted to an unknown point in time and space, to grab the keys to his car and make a break for the door. Halfway to the door the dog stopped him; "Where are you going George?" it asked. He ignored the dog, continued out the door, down the gently flowing staircase, and out to the street...all the while wondering if his name really was George. She had called him George all those years ago, when he once believed he could be somebody; when nothing seemed impossible. I tried to focus as his perceptions changed from first person to third and back again.

But that was neither here nor there, he HAD to get to his car and get the hell out of this nightmare. I leapt down the stairs, ran through the parking lot, jumped behind the wheel of my car, and jammed the keys into the ignition; I was on a hotel balcony.

masterofNone 11-26-2002 07:14 PM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

His ruse failed, however, as I maintained my steely gaze and asked, "Do you know where I might find a big hat?" I began to stand up in the hot tub but by the time I reached my feet I was in my living room again, dry as a bone. Dawn's glow had not yet begun to peek through the curtains, the room buzzed with a haze of television test pattern, and I stunk of alcohol and chlorine. It dawned on me then, perhaps as a result of the stench, that though I seemed to be shifting through time uncontrollably, my self perception, my inner timeline, remained contiguous. I wasn't sure if this was the result of the hallucinogens or the blithe sublimation of my own desires. He decided, before his frame of reference once again shifted to an unknown point in time and space, to grab the keys to his car and make a break for the door. Halfway to the door the dog stopped him; "Where are you going George?" it asked. He ignored the dog, continued out the door, down the gently flowing staircase, and out to the street...all the while wondering if his name really was George. She had called him George all those years ago, when he once believed he could be somebody; when nothing seemed impossible. I tried to focus as his perceptions changed from first person to third and back again.

But that was neither here nor there, he HAD to get to his car and get the hell out of this nightmare. I leapt down the stairs, ran through the parking lot, jumped behind the wheel of my car, and jammed the keys into the ignition; I was on a hotel balcony. It was twilight in Vegas, the kind of magical technicolor sunset I'd seen in every Elvis movie ever made.

Deviate 11-26-2002 07:23 PM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

His ruse failed, however, as I maintained my steely gaze and asked, "Do you know where I might find a big hat?" I began to stand up in the hot tub but by the time I reached my feet I was in my living room again, dry as a bone. Dawn's glow had not yet begun to peek through the curtains, the room buzzed with a haze of television test pattern, and I stunk of alcohol and chlorine. It dawned on me then, perhaps as a result of the stench, that though I seemed to be shifting through time uncontrollably, my self perception, my inner timeline, remained contiguous. I wasn't sure if this was the result of the hallucinogens or the blithe sublimation of my own desires. He decided, before his frame of reference once again shifted to an unknown point in time and space, to grab the keys to his car and make a break for the door. Halfway to the door the dog stopped him; "Where are you going George?" it asked. He ignored the dog, continued out the door, down the gently flowing staircase, and out to the street...all the while wondering if his name really was George. She had called him George all those years ago, when he once believed he could be somebody; when nothing seemed impossible. I tried to focus as his perceptions changed from first person to third and back again.

But that was neither here nor there, he HAD to get to his car and get the hell out of this nightmare. I leapt down the stairs, ran through the parking lot, jumped behind the wheel of my car, and jammed the keys into the ignition; I was on a hotel balcony. It was twilight in Vegas, the kind of magical technicolor sunset I'd seen in every Elvis movie ever made.

I felt a soft hand on my neck and turned to find her standing behind me, holding only a towel around her.

masterofNone 11-26-2002 07:33 PM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

His ruse failed, however, as I maintained my steely gaze and asked, "Do you know where I might find a big hat?" I began to stand up in the hot tub but by the time I reached my feet I was in my living room again, dry as a bone. Dawn's glow had not yet begun to peek through the curtains, the room buzzed with a haze of television test pattern, and I stunk of alcohol and chlorine. It dawned on me then, perhaps as a result of the stench, that though I seemed to be shifting through time uncontrollably, my self perception, my inner timeline, remained contiguous. I wasn't sure if this was the result of the hallucinogens or the blithe sublimation of my own desires. He decided, before his frame of reference once again shifted to an unknown point in time and space, to grab the keys to his car and make a break for the door. Halfway to the door the dog stopped him; "Where are you going George?" it asked. He ignored the dog, continued out the door, down the gently flowing staircase, and out to the street...all the while wondering if his name really was George. She had called him George all those years ago, when he once believed he could be somebody; when nothing seemed impossible. I tried to focus as his perceptions changed from first person to third and back again.

But that was neither here nor there, he HAD to get to his car and get the hell out of this nightmare. I leapt down the stairs, ran through the parking lot, jumped behind the wheel of my car, and jammed the keys into the ignition; I was on a hotel balcony. It was twilight in Vegas, the kind of magical technicolor sunset I'd seen in every Elvis movie ever made.

I felt a soft hand on my neck and turned to find her standing behind me, holding only a towel around her."You can't let Larry get to you," she whispered as the towel dropped, "think of him as my agent."

Deviate 12-04-2002 09:12 PM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

His ruse failed, however, as I maintained my steely gaze and asked, "Do you know where I might find a big hat?" I began to stand up in the hot tub but by the time I reached my feet I was in my living room again, dry as a bone. Dawn's glow had not yet begun to peek through the curtains, the room buzzed with a haze of television test pattern, and I stunk of alcohol and chlorine. It dawned on me then, perhaps as a result of the stench, that though I seemed to be shifting through time uncontrollably, my self perception, my inner timeline, remained contiguous. I wasn't sure if this was the result of the hallucinogens or the blithe sublimation of my own desires. He decided, before his frame of reference once again shifted to an unknown point in time and space, to grab the keys to his car and make a break for the door. Halfway to the door the dog stopped him; "Where are you going George?" it asked. He ignored the dog, continued out the door, down the gently flowing staircase, and out to the street...all the while wondering if his name really was George. She had called him George all those years ago, when he once believed he could be somebody; when nothing seemed impossible. I tried to focus as his perceptions changed from first person to third and back again.

But that was neither here nor there, he HAD to get to his car and get the hell out of this nightmare. I leapt down the stairs, ran through the parking lot, jumped behind the wheel of my car, and jammed the keys into the ignition; I was on a hotel balcony. It was twilight in Vegas, the kind of magical technicolor sunset I'd seen in every Elvis movie ever made.

I felt a soft hand on my neck and turned to find her standing behind me, holding only a towel around her."You can't let Larry get to you," she whispered as the towel dropped, "think of him as my agent."

I closed my eyes and slowly reached my hand out to touch her skin; for one slim second time stood still as I pulled her close to me.

masterofNone 12-07-2002 02:06 PM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

His ruse failed, however, as I maintained my steely gaze and asked, "Do you know where I might find a big hat?" I began to stand up in the hot tub but by the time I reached my feet I was in my living room again, dry as a bone. Dawn's glow had not yet begun to peek through the curtains, the room buzzed with a haze of television test pattern, and I stunk of alcohol and chlorine. It dawned on me then, perhaps as a result of the stench, that though I seemed to be shifting through time uncontrollably, my self perception, my inner timeline, remained contiguous. I wasn't sure if this was the result of the hallucinogens or the blithe sublimation of my own desires. He decided, before his frame of reference once again shifted to an unknown point in time and space, to grab the keys to his car and make a break for the door. Halfway to the door the dog stopped him; "Where are you going George?" it asked. He ignored the dog, continued out the door, down the gently flowing staircase, and out to the street...all the while wondering if his name really was George. She had called him George all those years ago, when he once believed he could be somebody; when nothing seemed impossible. I tried to focus as his perceptions changed from first person to third and back again.

But that was neither here nor there, he HAD to get to his car and get the hell out of this nightmare. I leapt down the stairs, ran through the parking lot, jumped behind the wheel of my car, and jammed the keys into the ignition; I was on a hotel balcony. It was twilight in Vegas, the kind of magical technicolor sunset I'd seen in every Elvis movie ever made.

I felt a soft hand on my neck and turned to find her standing behind me, holding only a towel around her."You can't let Larry get to you," she whispered as the towel dropped, "think of him as my agent."

I closed my eyes and slowly reached my hand out to touch her skin; for one slim second time stood still as I pulled her close to me. The dry desert wind blew her hair about me as I gently kissed her neck.

Deviate 12-09-2002 01:21 PM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

His ruse failed, however, as I maintained my steely gaze and asked, "Do you know where I might find a big hat?" I began to stand up in the hot tub but by the time I reached my feet I was in my living room again, dry as a bone. Dawn's glow had not yet begun to peek through the curtains, the room buzzed with a haze of television test pattern, and I stunk of alcohol and chlorine. It dawned on me then, perhaps as a result of the stench, that though I seemed to be shifting through time uncontrollably, my self perception, my inner timeline, remained contiguous. I wasn't sure if this was the result of the hallucinogens or the blithe sublimation of my own desires. He decided, before his frame of reference once again shifted to an unknown point in time and space, to grab the keys to his car and make a break for the door. Halfway to the door the dog stopped him; "Where are you going George?" it asked. He ignored the dog, continued out the door, down the gently flowing staircase, and out to the street...all the while wondering if his name really was George. She had called him George all those years ago, when he once believed he could be somebody; when nothing seemed impossible. I tried to focus as his perceptions changed from first person to third and back again.

But that was neither here nor there, he HAD to get to his car and get the hell out of this nightmare. I leapt down the stairs, ran through the parking lot, jumped behind the wheel of my car, and jammed the keys into the ignition; I was on a hotel balcony. It was twilight in Vegas, the kind of magical technicolor sunset I'd seen in every Elvis movie ever made.

I felt a soft hand on my neck and turned to find her standing behind me, holding only a towel around her."You can't let Larry get to you," she whispered as the towel dropped, "think of him as my agent."

I closed my eyes and slowly reached my hand out to touch her skin; for one slim second time stood still as I pulled her close to me. The dry desert wind blew her hair about me as I gently kissed her neck. She lifted herself on to her toes and whispered into my ear, "Find me."

masterofNone 12-09-2002 01:24 PM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

His ruse failed, however, as I maintained my steely gaze and asked, "Do you know where I might find a big hat?" I began to stand up in the hot tub but by the time I reached my feet I was in my living room again, dry as a bone. Dawn's glow had not yet begun to peek through the curtains, the room buzzed with a haze of television test pattern, and I stunk of alcohol and chlorine. It dawned on me then, perhaps as a result of the stench, that though I seemed to be shifting through time uncontrollably, my self perception, my inner timeline, remained contiguous. I wasn't sure if this was the result of the hallucinogens or the blithe sublimation of my own desires. He decided, before his frame of reference once again shifted to an unknown point in time and space, to grab the keys to his car and make a break for the door. Halfway to the door the dog stopped him; "Where are you going George?" it asked. He ignored the dog, continued out the door, down the gently flowing staircase, and out to the street...all the while wondering if his name really was George. She had called him George all those years ago, when he once believed he could be somebody; when nothing seemed impossible. I tried to focus as his perceptions changed from first person to third and back again.

But that was neither here nor there, he HAD to get to his car and get the hell out of this nightmare. I leapt down the stairs, ran through the parking lot, jumped behind the wheel of my car, and jammed the keys into the ignition; I was on a hotel balcony. It was twilight in Vegas, the kind of magical technicolor sunset I'd seen in every Elvis movie ever made.

I felt a soft hand on my neck and turned to find her standing behind me, holding only a towel around her."You can't let Larry get to you," she whispered as the towel dropped, "think of him as my agent."

I closed my eyes and slowly reached my hand out to touch her skin; for one slim second time stood still as I pulled her close to me. The dry desert wind blew her hair about me as I gently kissed her neck. She lifted herself on to her toes and whispered into my ear, "Find me."

The world melted around me again as I found myself driving down the freeway intent on doing just that... if I could just remember where her apartment was.

Deviate 12-11-2002 12:05 PM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

His ruse failed, however, as I maintained my steely gaze and asked, "Do you know where I might find a big hat?" I began to stand up in the hot tub but by the time I reached my feet I was in my living room again, dry as a bone. Dawn's glow had not yet begun to peek through the curtains, the room buzzed with a haze of television test pattern, and I stunk of alcohol and chlorine. It dawned on me then, perhaps as a result of the stench, that though I seemed to be shifting through time uncontrollably, my self perception, my inner timeline, remained contiguous. I wasn't sure if this was the result of the hallucinogens or the blithe sublimation of my own desires. He decided, before his frame of reference once again shifted to an unknown point in time and space, to grab the keys to his car and make a break for the door. Halfway to the door the dog stopped him; "Where are you going George?" it asked. He ignored the dog, continued out the door, down the gently flowing staircase, and out to the street...all the while wondering if his name really was George. She had called him George all those years ago, when he once believed he could be somebody; when nothing seemed impossible. I tried to focus as his perceptions changed from first person to third and back again.

But that was neither here nor there, he HAD to get to his car and get the hell out of this nightmare. I leapt down the stairs, ran through the parking lot, jumped behind the wheel of my car, and jammed the keys into the ignition; I was on a hotel balcony. It was twilight in Vegas, the kind of magical technicolor sunset I'd seen in every Elvis movie ever made.

I felt a soft hand on my neck and turned to find her standing behind me, holding only a towel around her."You can't let Larry get to you," she whispered as the towel dropped, "think of him as my agent."

I closed my eyes and slowly reached my hand out to touch her skin; for one slim second time stood still as I pulled her close to me. The dry desert wind blew her hair about me as I gently kissed her neck. She lifted herself on to her toes and whispered into my ear, "Find me."

The world melted around me again as I found myself driving down the freeway intent on doing just that... if I could just remember where her apartment was. Her sweet smell was still on my lips, leading me seductively to her.

masterofNone 12-13-2002 01:54 AM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

His ruse failed, however, as I maintained my steely gaze and asked, "Do you know where I might find a big hat?" I began to stand up in the hot tub but by the time I reached my feet I was in my living room again, dry as a bone. Dawn's glow had not yet begun to peek through the curtains, the room buzzed with a haze of television test pattern, and I stunk of alcohol and chlorine. It dawned on me then, perhaps as a result of the stench, that though I seemed to be shifting through time uncontrollably, my self perception, my inner timeline, remained contiguous. I wasn't sure if this was the result of the hallucinogens or the blithe sublimation of my own desires. He decided, before his frame of reference once again shifted to an unknown point in time and space, to grab the keys to his car and make a break for the door. Halfway to the door the dog stopped him; "Where are you going George?" it asked. He ignored the dog, continued out the door, down the gently flowing staircase, and out to the street...all the while wondering if his name really was George. She had called him George all those years ago, when he once believed he could be somebody; when nothing seemed impossible. I tried to focus as his perceptions changed from first person to third and back again.

But that was neither here nor there, he HAD to get to his car and get the hell out of this nightmare. I leapt down the stairs, ran through the parking lot, jumped behind the wheel of my car, and jammed the keys into the ignition; I was on a hotel balcony. It was twilight in Vegas, the kind of magical technicolor sunset I'd seen in every Elvis movie ever made.

I felt a soft hand on my neck and turned to find her standing behind me, holding only a towel around her."You can't let Larry get to you," she whispered as the towel dropped, "think of him as my agent."

I closed my eyes and slowly reached my hand out to touch her skin; for one slim second time stood still as I pulled her close to me. The dry desert wind blew her hair about me as I gently kissed her neck. She lifted herself on to her toes and whispered into my ear, "Find me."

The world melted around me again as I found myself driving down the freeway intent on doing just that... if I could just remember where her apartment was. Her sweet smell was still on my lips, leading me seductively to her. I headed west under the noonday sun trying to parse the fragmented memories left behind by the mind bending banana when I saw the sign ahead - Cantata Del Sol 3mi.

Lauren 12-17-2002 04:22 PM

I would have sold my soul to make that car go faster. The 3 miles oozed by so slowly I thought i would never ever get there. I began to to drum my fingers on the sterring wheel humming impatiently. I thought of her, my heart beat for her. I was nothing until i was with her. I was drowning in her sea of words. I would find her or I would go mad in the process. So much had happened so little mattered!

masterofNone 12-19-2002 12:22 AM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

His ruse failed, however, as I maintained my steely gaze and asked, "Do you know where I might find a big hat?" I began to stand up in the hot tub but by the time I reached my feet I was in my living room again, dry as a bone. Dawn's glow had not yet begun to peek through the curtains, the room buzzed with a haze of television test pattern, and I stunk of alcohol and chlorine. It dawned on me then, perhaps as a result of the stench, that though I seemed to be shifting through time uncontrollably, my self perception, my inner timeline, remained contiguous. I wasn't sure if this was the result of the hallucinogens or the blithe sublimation of my own desires. He decided, before his frame of reference once again shifted to an unknown point in time and space, to grab the keys to his car and make a break for the door. Halfway to the door the dog stopped him; "Where are you going George?" it asked. He ignored the dog, continued out the door, down the gently flowing staircase, and out to the street...all the while wondering if his name really was George. She had called him George all those years ago, when he once believed he could be somebody; when nothing seemed impossible. I tried to focus as his perceptions changed from first person to third and back again.

But that was neither here nor there, he HAD to get to his car and get the hell out of this nightmare. I leapt down the stairs, ran through the parking lot, jumped behind the wheel of my car, and jammed the keys into the ignition; I was on a hotel balcony. It was twilight in Vegas, the kind of magical technicolor sunset I'd seen in every Elvis movie ever made.

I felt a soft hand on my neck and turned to find her standing behind me, holding only a towel around her."You can't let Larry get to you," she whispered as the towel dropped, "think of him as my agent."

I closed my eyes and slowly reached my hand out to touch her skin; for one slim second time stood still as I pulled her close to me. The dry desert wind blew her hair about me as I gently kissed her neck. She lifted herself on to her toes and whispered into my ear, "Find me."

The world melted around me again as I found myself driving down the freeway intent on doing just that... if I could just remember where her apartment was. Her sweet smell was still on my lips, leading me seductively to her. I headed west under the noonday sun trying to parse the fragmented memories left behind by the mind bending banana when I saw the sign ahead - Cantata Del Sol 3mi. I would have sold my soul to make that car go faster. The 3 miles oozed by so slowly I thought i would never ever get there. I began to to drum my fingers on the sterring wheel humming impatiently. I thought of her, my heart beat for her. I was nothing until i was with her. I was drowning in her sea of words. I would find her or I would go mad in the process. So much had happened so little mattered! I glanced at my watch.

Indigo 12-31-2002 11:00 PM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

His ruse failed, however, as I maintained my steely gaze and asked, "Do you know where I might find a big hat?" I began to stand up in the hot tub but by the time I reached my feet I was in my living room again, dry as a bone. Dawn's glow had not yet begun to peek through the curtains, the room buzzed with a haze of television test pattern, and I stunk of alcohol and chlorine. It dawned on me then, perhaps as a result of the stench, that though I seemed to be shifting through time uncontrollably, my self perception, my inner timeline, remained contiguous. I wasn't sure if this was the result of the hallucinogens or the blithe sublimation of my own desires. He decided, before his frame of reference once again shifted to an unknown point in time and space, to grab the keys to his car and make a break for the door. Halfway to the door the dog stopped him; "Where are you going George?" it asked. He ignored the dog, continued out the door, down the gently flowing staircase, and out to the street...all the while wondering if his name really was George. She had called him George all those years ago, when he once believed he could be somebody; when nothing seemed impossible. I tried to focus as his perceptions changed from first person to third and back again.

But that was neither here nor there, he HAD to get to his car and get the hell out of this nightmare. I leapt down the stairs, ran through the parking lot, jumped behind the wheel of my car, and jammed the keys into the ignition; I was on a hotel balcony. It was twilight in Vegas, the kind of magical technicolor sunset I'd seen in every Elvis movie ever made.

I felt a soft hand on my neck and turned to find her standing behind me, holding only a towel around her."You can't let Larry get to you," she whispered as the towel dropped, "think of him as my agent."

I closed my eyes and slowly reached my hand out to touch her skin; for one slim second time stood still as I pulled her close to me. The dry desert wind blew her hair about me as I gently kissed her neck. She lifted herself on to her toes and whispered into my ear, "Find me."

The world melted around me again as I found myself driving down the freeway intent on doing just that... if I could just remember where her apartment was. Her sweet smell was still on my lips, leading me seductively to her. I headed west under the noonday sun trying to parse the fragmented memories left behind by the mind bending banana when I saw the sign ahead - Cantata Del Sol 3mi. I would have sold my soul to make that car go faster. The 3 miles oozed by so slowly I thought i would never ever get there. I began to to drum my fingers on the sterring wheel humming impatiently. I thought of her, my heart beat for her. I was nothing until i was with her. I was drowning in her sea of words. I would find her or I would go mad in the process. So much had happened so little mattered! I glanced at my watch... 11 a.m. "Damn the luck!!!!" I was going to miss Sponge Bob.

masterofNone 01-03-2003 10:59 PM

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."

His ruse failed, however, as I maintained my steely gaze and asked, "Do you know where I might find a big hat?" I began to stand up in the hot tub but by the time I reached my feet I was in my living room again, dry as a bone. Dawn's glow had not yet begun to peek through the curtains, the room buzzed with a haze of television test pattern, and I stunk of alcohol and chlorine. It dawned on me then, perhaps as a result of the stench, that though I seemed to be shifting through time uncontrollably, my self perception, my inner timeline, remained contiguous. I wasn't sure if this was the result of the hallucinogens or the blithe sublimation of my own desires. He decided, before his frame of reference once again shifted to an unknown point in time and space, to grab the keys to his car and make a break for the door. Halfway to the door the dog stopped him; "Where are you going George?" it asked. He ignored the dog, continued out the door, down the gently flowing staircase, and out to the street...all the while wondering if his name really was George. She had called him George all those years ago, when he once believed he could be somebody; when nothing seemed impossible. I tried to focus as his perceptions changed from first person to third and back again.

But that was neither here nor there, he HAD to get to his car and get the hell out of this nightmare. I leapt down the stairs, ran through the parking lot, jumped behind the wheel of my car, and jammed the keys into the ignition; I was on a hotel balcony. It was twilight in Vegas, the kind of magical technicolor sunset I'd seen in every Elvis movie ever made.

I felt a soft hand on my neck and turned to find her standing behind me, holding only a towel around her."You can't let Larry get to you," she whispered as the towel dropped, "think of him as my agent."

I closed my eyes and slowly reached my hand out to touch her skin; for one slim second time stood still as I pulled her close to me. The dry desert wind blew her hair about me as I gently kissed her neck. She lifted herself on to her toes and whispered into my ear, "Find me."

The world melted around me again as I found myself driving down the freeway intent on doing just that... if I could just remember where her apartment was. Her sweet smell was still on my lips, leading me seductively to her. I headed west under the noonday sun trying to parse the fragmented memories left behind by the mind bending banana when I saw the sign ahead - Cantata Del Sol 3mi. I would have sold my soul to make that car go faster. The 3 miles oozed by so slowly I thought i would never ever get there. I began to to drum my fingers on the sterring wheel humming impatiently. I thought of her, my heart beat for her. I was nothing until i was with her. I was drowning in her sea of words. I would find her or I would go mad in the process. So much had happened so little mattered! I glanced at my watch... 11 a.m. "Damn the luck!!!!" I was going to miss Sponge Bob. But that didn't matter.


All times are GMT -3. The time now is 04:29 AM.

Powered by vBulletin® Version 3.6.5
Copyright ©2000 - 2020, Jelsoft Enterprises Ltd.